


WWJ-ZD

by SoniaVice



Category: Hockey RPF, Sports RPF
Genre: M/M, Montreal Canadiens, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-29
Updated: 2014-08-29
Packaged: 2018-02-15 07:08:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2220090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SoniaVice/pseuds/SoniaVice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carey had no good reason to be in Toronto in August.</p>
            </blockquote>





	WWJ-ZD

**Author's Note:**

> Depicts attitudes about player-management relations that not everyone will subscribe too.
> 
> Exists in that most common of parallel worlds where wives and girlfriends have other, fabulous lives.

Price calls him on a Tuesday afternoon. 

"Hey rich man," he says, "Mr. Millions. You should come see me."

It turns out Price means some airport hotel in Mississauga, not his BC ranch or his Montreal apartment. 

P.K. goes because who doesn't want to drive across Toronto in the middle of the first hot day of the summer.

The room contains one bed, one dresser, one suitcase - closed, one bottle of expensive scotch and two glasses. And one smiling Carey Price, dressed in a rumpled shirt and jeans, hair a mess and looking like he just blew into town for no good reason.

Price hands him two fingers at half past two in the afternoon and toasts him with a dull clink of glass. "Nice deal, man. My mom wants your lawyer's number."

"Yeah, your people going to court? Because of the ruling in that case?" 

Price looks surprised, takes a long drink and looks at P.K. assessingly. "You know about the ruling?"

"Hey, I keep up with the news. Don't just worry about my own shit, you know."

Price gestures with the drink in his hand, accepting that. He's never been the type who thinks all P.K. does is count his own money and memorize his own stats.

"Don't think my guy knows shit about land claims or whatever, but it would be awesome to watch him nail the bastards' balls to the wall," P.K. tells him. 

"Again," Price says and grins, like he's picturing it. "You stood all the way up there, man. Balls of fucking steel."

P.K. laughs it off. He doesn't want to talk about the nerve-wracking last few weeks. "Nah," he says, going for maximum cocky bastard by sprawling out on Price's bed, legs flung out wide. "It was easy. I just said to myself, what would Jay-Z do?"

Price laughs at him, shakes his head like maximum cocky bastard is adorable or something. And then he very obviously drops his eyes and checks out what P.K.'s showing off.

Well, shit.

"You ever think about going with his agency?" Carey says, "He got a pile of cash for Cano." 

P.K. lolls back on his elbows, stretches out a little more, watches Carey watching him. "Thought about it," he says, "thought about it a lot, you know. But then that would be the story, and I want what happens on the ice to be the story."

Carey looks at him dubiously. "Don't think you get to have that. The millions are the story. You wanted the cash, you take the other shit that comes with it too."

"Yeah, yeah." This conversation is not going where he wants at all. "The problem with getting what you want," he says, trying for maximum seductive bastard, which always makes him feel faintly ridiculous, "is that the getting is what you start wanting. All the time."

Carey stills, not that he's ever moving more than he has to, and his eyes go darker. He looks like he has wants he'd like fulfilled too. Who doesn't? 

"What else do you want P.K.?" He says, quiet and husky and like he's going to go get whatever it is P.K. desires and just hand it on over.

"This totally gets you hot doesn't it? Talking about what I want," P.K. says and gets up slowly and moves in on Carey. 

Carey sets his drink down and gets ready for the play. "It gets _you_ hot. You have some weird kink about this now?" 

"You should thank god I've got weird kinks, Carey, weird enough to want to fuck a goalie." P.K. says the word goalie right into Carey's mouth and then kisses him hard like he wants to.

Carey immediately wraps his arms around him and splays one hand across the back of his head, tilts it back a bit more and holds him still. Carey kisses back harder, getting his whole body into it. His other hand is wandering P.K.'s body, touching his back and his shoulder, being a distraction, leaving a trail of heat all over P.K.'s body. 

P.K. has lost the momentum completely, but he's willing to just go with it to feel Carey tight against his body, Carey's tongue driving into his mouth and fracturing his control. He asked for it, he's willing to take all that comes with it. 

Carey's moving them back toward the bed so P.K. just keeps going with the flow. 

Carey lets him go and steps back half a pace, smiles at him slow and dirty. "I don't actually see you fucking the goalie, though," he drawls out.

"You got Tuukka Rask's number? Think you could fix us up?" P.K. says. 

"No fucking Finnish goalies, P.K.," Carey says serious tone belied by the twitch of his lips. 

"No?" P.K. says. He wants to just lie back on the bed and let Carey crash down on top of him, but he's not quite sure Carey will follow him down if he goes.

"No fucking Finns at all. No other goalies either."

"No, huh. Just you? Then you better get out of these clothes, Carey."

"Oh yeah, you want me naked, P.K.?"

"Yeah man, that is exactly what I want, so give it to me." P.K. grins at him, half cocksure, half a joke. "Want to touch every inch of you," he adds, straight-up serious.

Carey backs up a long stride, about as far as he can go in the small room. He strips his shirt off and just lets it drop, the jeans get shucked almost as fast and his underwear and socks follow. He's long, lean, beautiful, golden tan. His watch, a heavy leather-strapped affair, and a thin gold chain are the only things other than skin on display. It's a damned beautiful display.

Carey's hard, half anyway, and he smiles slow and easy and slides his hand down to his cock and gives it a couple of strokes. "You just looking?" he says quietly.

"Admiring."

"You need to catch up on the naked."

P.K. strips fast and efficient. He tosses his watch on the nightstand, which leaves him with skin and the gold rope crusted with diamonds he wears long enough to conceal beneath his clothes. It's ridiculous bling and he loves it unironically, but there's no percentage in showing it off.

Carey strides back right up into P.K.'s space, and lays his hand on the necklace, runs it through his fingers. P.K. lets him, amuses himself with running his hands up Carey's sides, feeling him shiver at the touch. 

"You hide things," Carey says quietly, right by his ear, and then belies that by wrapping his hand around P.K.'s very not hidden, more than half-hard dick. 

Carey is working at his neck, biting, tasting, trying to drive him more wild with wanting or just indulging himself, who knows. P.K. touches whatever he can reach, tries running his barely there nails down Carey's back and gets rewarded with an even bigger shiver. Which is nice, but not enough. 

P.K. grabs his ass, hard, and pulls them together. They fit very well and Carey finally leaves his neck alone and goes back to kissing, this time soft and gentle, quiet brushes of lips and tongue, while Carey's hands hold him tight enough to bruise. 

They're on the bed, and P.K. doesn't know if he jumped or if he was pushed, but Carey is grinding down hard and he's got P.K.'s hands in his, not so much pinned as occupied, and he's not kissing soft and easy any more. It isn't nice anymore, it's fucking fantastic.

Carey pulls up, rears right up until he's looming over P.K., one knee on the bed, the other foot on the floor. "You said you wanted to fuck me," he says in this accusing tone, like P.K.'s been slacking off.

P.K. laughs because, how this is his show all of a sudden he has no clue. His hands are loose so he shoves Carey, who goes over on his side like he's letting P.K. drive now. P.K. hooks his leg around Carey, rubbing the back of his calf with his heel. 

"I want to, I really, really want to," P.K. says, "but that just sounds like it would take too long."

Carey laughs and kisses him again, short and sharp, bites his bottom lip on the way back and grins like he knows he's bad and doesn't care. Carey thrusts up against him, makes a face and pulls back and rearranges P.K.'s dick to suit him. He thrusts again, a hard, sharp stab of his hips and P.K.'s having new thoughts about who should fuck whom. He didn't come here expecting to find new things to want. Things he can almost certainly have for the asking, no lawyers required. 

Carey goes back to working his neck again. They're thrusting leisurely against each other, sweat starting to make their bodies stick when Carey rolls them over and pulls off. P.K.'s hips, of their own accord, make needy little jerks looking for all that sweet friction. Carey smiles knowingly at him and vanishes. 

P.K. trusts he isn't going far to find lube. 

Carey settles himself on top again taking some of his weight on his elbows, and P.K. just holds on for the fucking ride this time. He curls his leg around Carey, lets his hands wander over Carey's back, his arms, lets Carey kiss him to incoherence. He's making a shit ton of noise, moaning whenever Carey leaves him enough breath. He'd be embarrassed if he had the time.

Going with it, taking it as it comes, it feels fantastic, like he's flying, but P.K. wants, needs, needs to come right this fucking second, so he grabs ass again and pulls them tight together, hard enough Carey's going to feel it for days, but P.K. doesn't fucking care because he wants it now.

His blood is hot with endorphins, and he's sore in a pile of places. It's the best high, like a good hard game almost delivers. 

Carey is up and looming again. P.K. should move, should pay more attention to how Carey is stroking himself, so he makes sure his eyes are open, watches Carey's flutter shut as he comes almost silently, quiet hitch of breath, loud in the sealed-up hotel room. 

Carey lands beside him, the bed complaining with an ominous creak. P.K. laughs, hoping Carey will have to pay for it. 

He slept, or nearly did, riding the buzz of contentment. He's cooling down, the lube and come and sweat a mess on his skin that he doesn't care about because Carey is slowly running his fingers down P.K.'s arm and has one ankle hooked around his.

Carey had no reason to be in Toronto in August. 

P.K. pokes him with one finger, and Carey makes an enquiring sound. P.K. should open his eyes again, but he likes the floating thing he's got going. "You should invite me back to BC," he says, matter of fact. 

"Should I?" Carey sounds amused, so P.K. cracks one eye open. Carey is balanced up on one elbow, looking down at P.K., and seems to think P.K. all fucked up on sex and making demands is the most charming thing ever.

P.K. grins at him, lays it on thick. "You've never taken me to see the ancestral lands, buddy, why not. Gotta win the cup first or something?"

"You want to go?"

"Yeah, I want to go. See your mom and dad again, see your ranch or what the fuck ever, see it all."

"You got days free?" 

"I can free 'em up if I want to." P.K. has done his humble millionaire act for the press, which is mostly sincere, but only mostly, and he can cut a few of the interviews he'd agreed to off the back end. Take a week, maybe two. Take what he wants to take.

Carey gets up and stretches his arms straight up, and P.K. watches the way the soft lamp light softens his body, fuzzes out the cut of hard muscles, fresh from summer's work. It's everything he wants. 

"I'm calling first shower," Carey says and P.K. waves consent, watches him walk to the bathroom enjoying the rear view as much as the front. 

Carey turns and catches him looking, smirks a little. 

"I really want you, Carey, you know that, right?" P.K. says, worried that he's been playing it a bit too brash.

"Relax, you've already got me." Carey watches P.K. take that in and smiles at what he sees. "Hey, don't just loll around there rich man, get your phone out and find us some tickets to Vancouver. Or buy me a damn plane or something."

P.K. considers it. Jay-Z would buy the plane.

**Author's Note:**

> A few weeks before P.K. Subban got done making The Habs sit up and say please, there was a game-changing Supreme Court of Canada ruling in a BC land claim case that will affect how Aboriginal Title is defined for evermore. While Carey Prices's mom isn't a chief anymore, it's plausible she's still in the loop.
> 
> I swear, I wrote this before I knew Carey Price's father _bought him a plane_ when he was a kid. So, totally plausible he sees that as a reasonable token of esteem.
> 
> You are totally free to think my take on hockey contracts is out to lunch, but I quit arguing about that in the eighties, so...
> 
> I hope you had fun reading.


End file.
